


what we pay for family

by cywscross



Series: 100 Prompts Challenge [9]
Category: Fast and the Furious Series
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Character Death, Don't copy to another site, Gen, Misunderstandings, Murder, Post-Fate of the Furious (2017), Protective Siblings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-05
Updated: 2020-03-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:14:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23024620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cywscross/pseuds/cywscross
Summary: Deckard returns Toretto’s child and even stays for a meal. Owen spends the entire time huddled on a nearby rooftop, watching the quaint little family through the scope of his sniper rifle.
Relationships: Deckard Shaw & Owen Shaw
Series: 100 Prompts Challenge [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1542082
Comments: 19
Kudos: 195





	what we pay for family

**Author's Note:**

> For the [100prompts challenge on DW](https://100prompts.dreamwidth.org/).
> 
> [**Prompt:** 047\. Writer's Choice - Debt](https://cywscross.dreamwidth.org/17140.html)

They'd parted ways after Owen had gotten the plane back on the ground. Deckard had looked at him, but he hadn't even needed to ask - Owen had already been shaking his head, forcing a nonchalant smirk even as he'd turned away.

"I would hardly be welcome, Deckard." He'd scoffed at the very idea. "I have no desire to spend any length of time in their presence, and I'm sure the feeling is mutual. Besides, I have a plane to steal. Can't let the government get their hands on it when it's there for the taking now, can I?"

Deckard had sighed and rolled his eyes and told him not to fuck around too much, _remember what happened the last time you were on a plane, Owen?_ As if Owen could bloody well _forget_. Then he'd taken Toretto's baby and headed out to return him like they hadn't all done their level best to kill each other three years ago.

Owen had watched him walk away. Then he'd ducked back into the plane and gutted it for anything Cipher had left behind in her haste to escape. Most of the computers had been wiped clean, or the information packages had self-destructed, but he'd taken what he could, including - how very fortunate - the God's Eye.

He'd left the plane behind, in the end. Better that way. The government would take one look at the lack of files on the computer systems and assume Cipher had taken them all. Including Toretto's hacker girl's creation.

Owen had slipped away after that, hotwired the first nondescript vehicle he could find, and headed straight for one of his safehouses. He'd stopped for a change of clothes and a hot meal, packed for another trip on the road, and then called one of his contacts for another car that would take him to his destination.

He'd barely settled down on his chosen perch before his brother drove up and parked on the street below. He'd watched Deckard get out with the baby carrier under one arm. He'd watched him head inside the building. He'd watched him talk to Dominic Toretto and shake his hand.

He'd watched Deckard sit down for dinner, and he'd spent the rest of the evening huddled on a nearby rooftop, watching the quaint little family through the scope of his sniper rifle, Letty and Hobbs in particular, because if a fight broke out, Toretto had his arms full with the kid so those two would be the most dangerous. On the other hand, he'd underestimated the entire group once already and he’d like to think he can learn from his mistakes. So he’d stayed silent and vigilant and focused, marking every head milling about Toretto's patio, finger on the trigger, ready to take them out at half a moment's notice.

Nothing had come of it in the end. For all intents and purposes, Toretto's crew and Owen's brother were friends now. Owen hadn't understood it, at all, because that friend of theirs that Deckard had killed for Owen was still indisputably dead, and Owen himself was still responsible for putting a hit on Letty and then manipulating her when the opportunity had dropped into his lap.

The entire situation had mystified him to no end, but he'd set it aside without trying to understand it. He hadn't needed to. He'd already known the most important points - one, Deckard had walked in there without so much as a sidearm on him; two, two of Toretto's crew were still dead, directly or indirectly because of Owen and Deckard; and three, if Owen hadn't forgotten number two, then Toretto sure as hell hadn't forgotten it either. Bringing back Toretto's kid safe and sound seemed to have bought Deckard some goodwill, for now, but who knew how long that would last? Even if Toretto could forgive Deckard for what he did, there was still a chance he'd take out his grievances against Owen on his brother.

So Owen had stayed, kept his targets in sight, and hadn't moved until dinner was over and Deckard had finally said his goodbyes and driven away.

He'd remained for a good half-hour more, watching Toretto and his friends clean up and chat amongst themselves and take turns cooing over the baby.

His finger had itched on the trigger more than he could've put into words, it would've been _easy_ , he should've done this to begin with, three years ago. But in the end, he'd let them go. He'd backed up off the roof, disassembled his rifle, and let the whole damn lot of them live another day.

Deckard liked these people. He wouldn't have stayed for dinner if he didn't.

Deckard liked these people, who'd nearly put Owen into an early grave, who _had_ put him in a coma for almost a year and then that shithole of a prison for almost two, who'd locked Deckard himself away for almost three years before they'd needed him enough to let him break out.

Deckard liked these people enough to forgive them for all of that, so Owen couldn't touch them anymore.

He doesn't think he's ever hated any single group of people more.

* * *

_:Where are you?:_

The text comes three days later. Owen, sitting in the shaded patio of a restaurant in Athens, glances at it before turning his attention back to the sunlit courtyard down below. Voices and laughter and distant traffic blend in the background. He has an iced coffee in one hand and a half-eaten pizza on the table. His shirt and jeans cover up most of his scars, and lounging in the corner with a tablet in his lap, nobody has paid him much attention.

It's the most relaxed he's been in over three years.

His phone buzzes again. _:Are you still in the country?:_

Owen glances down. He's already modified the God's Eye so that the program would run on his tablet, but he's had no luck tracking Cipher. Or rather, a few of her closest associates, since even he doesn't know what her real name is. It's disappointing, but he can't say he wasn't expecting it. As soon as she'd realized she'd left the God's Eye behind, she would've taken measures to hide from it. Still, it's a very handy hacking device. After all, Cipher isn't the only one he wants to keep an eye out for.

His phone rings, once, twice, five times.

_:Pick up your phone.:_

His phone rings again, stopping after six.

_:Owen for god's sakes don't make me track you down.:_

Owen reaches over and turns his phone off, then closes his tablet too. He waves a waiter over to get his pizza packed up. His appetite's not what it used to be but there's a reason this is one of his favourite eateries. He can save the rest for dinner.

He gets to his feet and fishes out his wallet. Time to go.

* * *

He checks in on Toretto and every single one of his associates every day. The ex-cop and the sister and their kids are in Los Angeles, but the rest of the crew mill about New York, living their suburban lives, working out of their garages, going for the occasional race. Hobbs is supposedly retired, but it hasn't even been a month and the behemoth has already taken three separate - if relatively simple - missions for the DSS, FBI, _and_ CIA. And those two government agents responsible for getting Deckard and Owen's pardons have moved into a new base of operations. Well, the older one has; the younger one almost spends more time with the rest of Toretto's crew than at his job.

Owen doesn't actually care. So long as they stay away from his brother, who's - mostly - back in London now, he's more than happy to pretend they don't exist. He keeps an eye on them, just in case they get any ideas about avenging their dead friends - which would make _sense_ except Owen won't stand for it - but otherwise, he has bigger problems to deal with.

There's a lot of people who want to kill him these days. Well, there's always been a lot of people who want to kill him; came with the job and - Deckard once told him - his general personality. But they were also too afraid of him to try anything, or they needed his skillset too much, or they simply couldn't catch him, or he just killed them first when they tried to double-cross him, so it had never been a concern before.

Except no one who was anyone had failed to hear about Owen Shaw's defeat at the hands of some civilian street-racers, so his reputation had taken a hit, especially since he'd failed to escape over the course of the next three years. Then there are the more recent rumours about Owen's release, his full pardon, even his brief alliance with American law enforcement and Toretto himself. Owen suspects Cipher was the one behind that leak - the woman's nothing if not petty - and so here he is now, cleaning up the mess that's been building ever since he'd fallen out of that bloody plane.

Mostly, it consists of visiting old _friends_ and reminding them of the debts they still owe him. Some of them aren't very happy with that. Those are the establishments Owen leaves in fire and rubble and bodies. He has no need for turncoats who won't pay their dues for the services he'd once rendered for them, no need either for those stupid enough to think Owen Shaw is anything but dangerous when he's still around to make them regret it.

So he spends the next six months hopping from continent to continent and country to country, fixing up his splintered network just as much as he's enjoying his recovered freedom.

He'd hated prison. Maybe normal ones aren't as bad, but he has no intention of ever letting himself get caught again.

So he tends to his business and lets himself heal as much as he can, slowly returning his body to its peak condition. And in-between, Deckard's increasingly stormy texts and insistent phone calls dog his footsteps like a particularly pissed off bloodhound the longer Owen refuses to answer them.

He checks Deckard's location on God's Eye too and isn't always successful, because of course his brother has guessed that he took the hacking device. More than once, he barely gets out of a country before Deckard is tearing through it in his wake, a force of nature packed between flesh and bone. Sometimes, it feels like he literally teleports from London to wherever Owen happens to be at the time, and under any other circumstances, Owen would probably enjoy this little game of theirs. He’s never had the opportunity to test his evasion skills against Deckard’s tracking.

Under any other circumstances.

Owen isn't mad at him, isn't disappointed or upset or anything really. He has no right to lay any kind of blame on his brother when his mistakes were what put Deckard away in a cage for three years.

He's just… not quite sure how to talk to him either. Infiltrating Cipher's plane hadn't left them much time to chat, and Owen had known even then that Deckard was planning on speaking to him once it was all over. But Owen's also not sure what he would do if Deckard told him _he_ was disappointed in Owen, because Owen had finally gone too far, and his fuckups had nearly cost Deckard his life and _had_ cost him three years in prison.

Owen was as surprised as he wasn’t when Deckard had broken him out. And not surprised at all when he'd heard it was their mother who'd forced him to, and Toretto who'd required a second pair of hands to help retrieve his kid.

Not surprised, but somehow, that revelation - that Deckard would've left him to rot otherwise - had hurt more than hitting the tarmac after being thrown out of a moving plane.

So he's not mad. He just doesn't want to face Deckard and actually hear that he'd finally screwed up enough that even his older brother - with his personal code for family - regrets siding with him. Especially against the likes of Toretto, who seems to value familial bonds just as much as Deckard.

Owen doesn't want to hear it, so he ignores his brother and stays on the move and pretends Deckard Shaw is the sort of man who will give up sooner or later if Owen only denies him what he wants for long enough.

* * *

The biggest difference between Owen and Deckard is the fact that Deckard actually _wants_ to be a good person, even if he'd never admit it. Eteon, and the British government, had screwed Deckard over, forced him into a life of mercenary work, and Owen knows he's never _minded_ per se, he's even enjoyed it and probably wouldn’t rejoin the military even if it was offered to him, but being a killer-for-hire wasn't exactly something he'd chosen on his own, no matter what Hattie thinks, and that had never been made clearer than when they'd allied with Toretto's crew.

Saving the world, thwarting evil, being the good guys - it suits Deckard in a way it never has for Owen. Owen knows how to go through the motions - he'd been a good soldier and an excellent commander in the SAS, followed his orders and won his battles, wiped out their enemies and brought as many of his men home as possible every time - but it had never mattered to him the way it had to Deckard and does to Hattie. He’d only joined the army because Deck had, because he’d had no great ambitions of his own, and the military was a good way to hone the skills Deckard had already been teaching him, as well as give him the chance to branch out into other fields.

But after his brother had been framed and more or less turned into a fugitive, Owen had stayed only long enough to fuck up several ops that had resulted in the systematic deaths of every last one of Deckard's former direct superiors, nudge a handful of informants into place amongst his country's military ranks, and pick a fight - that he'd very bloodily and very permanently won - with the two officers who'd been sent to come to him with some bollocks story about Deckard betraying his own team but of course they knew Owen's _better_ , as if Owen would ever side with anyone over his own blood, even if what they'd claimed had been true. By the time the higher-ups had partially caught on and realized they should've taken him out when they'd gone after his brother, Owen was long gone, and all they could do was sweep the embarrassment under the rug before slapping a dishonourable discharge for disobeying a superior onto his military record.

Even then, Owen hadn't cared, not about his government accusing him of betraying Queen and country, not about the sneering whispers behind his back, not about being the _bad guy_. What did their opinions even matter? His loyalty has always been reserved for exactly three people, and that hasn't changed since Hattie was born. So long as Deckard was happy and Hattie was safe and their mum was free to plot as she pleased, the rest of the world could burn and Owen wouldn't give a damn.

Deckard isn't like him. Life's made him jaded and hard, and nowadays he has no problems shooting someone in the face for something as simple as mouthing off at exactly the wrong time, but deep down, he’s still the sort who'd fit right in with Toretto's people. Like-minded individuals with a love for cars and family, and a desire to do the right thing no matter how impossible the odds. Motivated by their devotion to each other, but still, at the end of the day, willing to do what it takes to protect the oblivious masses for no other reason than because they care.

Owen isn't like that, isn't like Deckard. He likes a decent fight, a perfect plan, the next spot of fun. He likes seeing his enemies' despair when they realize just how outmatched they are against him, likes dismantling their plans from the shadows while they remain ignorant, right up until their lives are shattered at their feet, likes the satisfaction resulting from a particularly complicated job completed by the skin of his teeth but with all objectives fully achieved. He likes a good wine and money in any currency, likes fast cars and a book he can get lost in. He likes things that excite him or make his life enjoyable, and saving the world, protecting the people, doing things out of the goodness of his heart, have never fallen into either category.

He's never understood the point of caring about people who aren't his family. But Hattie takes pride in it, and Deckard can't help himself.

Owen has never known how, and he stopped trying to learn a long time ago.

* * *

He checks up on Deckard sometimes, when he's on an actual job instead of trying to hunt Owen down, and finds his handiwork as brilliantly carried out as always. He checks the dropbox he set up for Hattie almost a decade ago and finds it as empty as usual. He checks up on their mother, sighs when he finds her in prison, and then sends his _regards_ to every warden, guard, and inmate in that facility.

The rest of the time, he keeps searching for any signs of Cipher.

* * *

Finding Han Seoul-Oh is a complete accident, mostly because usually the people his brother kills tend to stay dead. Owen had no reason to go looking for him.

But he’s in Tokyo talking to a black-market arms dealer doubling as a tech developer playing with suspiciously advanced weaponry. As in next-generation concussion grenades advanced, amongst other things, and quite possibly Owen's biggest lead on Cipher so far.

To absolutely no one's surprise, least of all Owen's, he walks in for the meeting and walks out only after trashing half the building, killing anybody who might pass on word about his presence, and wiping every camera and server he could find. He even managed not to break any windows, so when he strolls out, straightening his tie, with Cipher's location memorized and some very nice gadgets in his bag, including a fancy little digital cloaking device, it doesn't even look like anything's happened from the outside.

He's halfway back to his car when someone bumps into him, chasing change across the sidewalk after having presumably dropped some from the parking meter they'd been fiddling with.

"Sorry, dude," The man says as he hurries past.

Owen takes a split second to wonder if he's in a bad enough mood to shoot him on principle alone, and decides no, today's gone pretty well for him so far. He taps a finger against the pocket holding his wallet, where he'd felt the thief's fingers brush past just as Owen sidestepped him at the same time. He smiles, faintly amused, and then turns to continue on his way.

Then he stops as it registers, and he looks back. He only caught a glimpse earlier, but he's never forgotten a face in his life, and he couldn't forget this one if he tried. Come to think of it, the bloke had also spoken in English, and while that might be because Owen is very obviously not Japanese, that would also mean he got a good look at Owen's face.

And doesn't seem to have recognized him at all.

The man straightens up, coins in hand. He looks up, catches Owen’s eye, and offers a slightly nervous smile. "Uh, sorry 'bout that, man. I should've watched where I was going."

Owen waits one more beat, searching the man's face for any trace of a lie, aside from the obvious one, and then - with half a dozen potentialities suddenly crystallizing in his mind - he makes his own face soften, opens his stance into something less confrontational, produces a smile that's just the right amount of surprise and friendliness, and says, "Han? Han Seoul-Oh? Is that you?"

And Han Seoul-Oh blinks. Cocks his head. His confusion becomes more genuine. "Do I know you? Sorry, I was in a car accident a couple years ago. Banged my head pretty bad so my memories from before that are still kinda hazy."

Well, well. The universe does like it's jokes.

And either Toretto's the luckiest sod on the planet, or Owen simply has a knack for attracting amnesiacs.

* * *

Twenty minutes later, they're tucked away in a café with a couple drinks between them, and Owen's hacked the photos of Toretto's crew from the DSS database. Hobbs really should do something about that backdoor Deckard planted three years ago. Ah well, his loss, a Shaw's gain.

"These are my friends?" Seoul-Oh asks, frowning uncertainly, but there's a flicker of recollection in the pinch of his eyes as he flips from one picture to the next. Not as bad as Letty then. Owen's already coaxed a couple memories from him - he'd been a street-racer, knew his way around an engine, picked pockets like he breathed, and spent a lot of his life in America.

"This guy's familiar," Seoul-Oh mutters, stopping on Toretto.

"He's the leader of your crew," Owen says, in as neutral a tone as possible.

Seoul-Oh glances at him. "Not yours?"

Owen has to suppress a snort. He shrugs instead, loose and casual. "We were more acquaintances than anything, I believe. I never drove for him, but we've met up a couple times on jobs."

True enough. Not a lie, from a certain point of view.

"What kind of jobs did you do?" Seoul-Oh asks quizzically.

_The kind that gets you thrown out of planes without a parachute,_ Owen thinks darkly.

"Heists," He says instead. "Toretto has ties to a few people in law enforcement. Sometimes, they needed drivers who could handle themselves on dangerous roads, against dangerous individuals. Toretto's crew was usually the best one for the job."

He swallows back a grimace. Bloody hell, this better be worth it.

"Me too?" Seoul-Oh asks, a touch skeptical like that's the most difficult thing to believe.

Owen smiles. "Indeed. You were like family to them. There must've been some sort of mistake. They all think you're dead. Had a funeral and everything three years ago."

Seoul-Oh's shoulders hunch a little, but there's relief there too, as if he'd had some vague notion of having friends before, even if he couldn't recall their names and faces, but hadn't known why they weren't around.

Owen lets him mull that over for a while, not speaking again until he's finished his tea. Then he offers, "I could take you to them, if you want. They live in New York. They'll be overjoyed to see you alive."

Seoul-Oh startles, then stares. "What? I can't just show up on their doorstep! I should- I should at least call first! Besides, my passport’s expired, and I think those take a lot of time to renew."

Owen shoves down the urge to sigh. _Civilians_.

He nails on his best _trust me_ smile instead. Deckard would've punched him. Hattie would've called him creepy. Seoul-Oh relaxes.

"I have connections," Owen assures him. "I can get one expedited for you. All you have to do is say when."

Still, Seoul-Oh hesitates. He scrolls through the photos again, and he looks like he wants to, but what he says is, "I need to think about it. I need some time." He glances at Owen. "Is there a way I can contact them?"

Owen swallows down his annoyance. "I'm afraid I don't have their numbers, but…" He pulls out a business card. It only has a name and a number on it. "You can call me anytime, and if you give me your number, I would be happy to pass it on to your friends when I see them next. I'm heading back to the States soon anyway. It won't be out of my way."

Seoul-Oh picks up the card. "Gabriel Wash. …Doesn't ring a bell."

Owen smiles. "We've only met each other a few times. It's a good sign that you have some recollection of your friends at least. I'm sure the rest will follow soon."

Seoul-Oh nods, looking doubtful and hopeful at the same time. But he gives Owen his phone number, looking more at ease as they get up to leave, and they part ways outside the café.

Owen almost lets him go. He has business to take care of - Cipher is his top priority, he only has a small window of opportunity before she realizes her main weapons backer is out of commission, and he really doesn't relish the idea of an amnesiac civilian running around underfoot when he goes after her - but who knows what could go wrong if he leaves Seoul-Oh behind? Someone else might get wind of him, someone who has more use for Seoul-Oh dead than alive. Not to mention Owen still doesn't know the circumstances behind Seoul-Oh's survival, and he hadn't wanted to push too hard earlier. Deckard does good work though, and it would take some serious effort to trick him into thinking his target was dead. So whoever helped Seoul-Oh - took him to a hospital and hid him from the world - might still be in touch with the man, and what if they recognize Owen from Seoul-Oh's description of him? Or maybe there's a hacker amongst them who could easily pull up pictures from the traffic cams before Owen can get to them. And if Owen's name triggers just the right amount of bad memories in Seoul-Oh's head, he might try to run. Now that Owen knows he's alive, he can use the God's Eye to track him easily, but there's also a possibility that Seoul-Oh's benefactors could help him disappear a second time.

There's simply too many things that could go wrong if Owen leaves him behind. So, unfortunately for Seoul-Oh, he won't be seeing Japan again for a while.

Two blocks down, just as Seoul-Oh passes an alleyway, Owen catches him around the neck from behind, knocks him out, and makes his way back to the car waiting at the other end of the alley with his extra cargo in tow. There are no cameras, and an hour later, they've left the country behind.

* * *

Cipher certainly likes her untraceable planes, but even world-renowned hackers need to land to refuel and resupply. The problem was finding out where, and Owen has that now, along with a window of time for her next stop.

Middle-of-Nowhere Russia in the middle of the bloody night sounds about right.

It's a long flight and an even longer drive, but he makes it with plenty of time to spare to rig the place with as many explosives as he'd been able to store in the boot. Well first, he handcuffs and zip-ties Seoul-Oh to the backseat because he isn't taking any chances of someone fucking this up for him at the most inopportune moment. The man's still unconscious from a sedative Owen gave him, but it's just better to be careful.

There are three bunkers grouped together, half-buried in the snow. Owen could probably hack the locks on them, but not without notifying Cipher, so it's a good thing he doesn't need to. He circles each bunker with explosives, buries mines in the snow for good measure, and arms them all before jogging back to his car.

Now it's just a waiting game.

He settles back in the driver's seat, cranks up the heat, and pulls up God's Eye. He glances briefly in the rearview mirror at his unconscious passenger, then types in _Gisele Yashar_ for the third time since Japan.

_0 RESULTS_ blinks back at him, just like the previous two times, but if his theory is right, that means nothing. He'd checked on the way over; nobody had recovered her body. It had presumably been disintegrated when the plane crashed and exploded. But Owen had survived. And he'd always been fairly certain that Cipher had been keeping a very close eye on him during the Nightshade job. If she'd thought she could take a member of Toretto's crew as leverage against him later, would she?

Considering the fact that she'd gone to the trouble of abducting Toretto's old flame and their child, the answer would be a resounding yes. And if Yashar had been injured half as much as Owen had been, it would explain why Cipher couldn't use her before. They would've had to make sure she survived first. And then even after that, Cipher had probably thought the ex-girlfriend and son would make more of an impact than friend.

But one doesn't throw away potential assets just because they're not useful yet. If it were Owen, he would've kept Yashar stashed away somewhere. The lady in question is former Mossad. Once she'd recovered, Cipher would have to be an idiot not to keep her close enough to subdue at any moment. Owen's willing to bet they're both on the same plane.

He checks his watch. Almost three.

Time to finish this.

* * *

He doesn't monologue. He doesn't grandstand. He doesn't give her any kind of warning. He watches the plane descend from where he's lying flat on the top of his car, hidden behind a crop of rocks and the worsening blizzard, and he waits with the same kind of patience Deckard and the military had drilled into him as the bay doors open and men in winter gear begin swarming their way towards the bunkers.

He spots her pale gold head appear, bright against the gunmetal grey of the plane. He doesn't bother with the scope. Deckard taught him how to shoot blind before he ever even entered the army. He calculates angles, wind speed, gravity, the force of the storm.

It only takes one bullet, and the crack of it is lost in the howling gale. Cipher drops, dead before she finishes rolling off the ramp and into the snow.

Owen picks off five more mercenaries before someone realizes something is wrong. Another three before they shout and point in Owen's direction and run towards the bunkers for cover. Owen shrugs the rifle off his shoulder and reaches for the detonator.

The explosions are deafening, battling the storm for dominance. In the ensuing chaos, Owen slides off the car and hits the ground running.

Not all the soldiers are dead. The few who are still upright are staggering around like drunks though, and Owen whirls through them with a knife in each hand to slit their throats. When he reaches Cipher, he pauses only long enough to stab a blade through her throat and another through her heart, because _damn if she pulls a Lazarus too_ , Owen isn't taking any chances, even if the bullet hole in her forehead would've passed any sort of test for life.

Then he steps past her and up into the plane.

A knot of mercenaries is already gathering at the mouth, guns in hand. Owen flings a grenade at them, one that clears the way for him, and then he's taking on everyone else pouring into the cargo hold. It's easy, to sink into the familiar rhythm of fighting for his life. He shoots anyone who comes out to meet him, and breaks necks and twists limbs and smashes heads in if they manage to slip too close. He tears through the rest of the plane in a similar manner, killing everything that moves, brutal and efficient, and he doesn't stop until the only sounds left are the muffled shriek of the weather and his own fast breathing.

He exhales, then glances down at himself. There's a gash in his left arm, small but deep, it'll need stitches even if he can't feel it, and the front of his vest has a rip through it that goes all the way down to skin. This one's long, rib to hip, right across his scarred abdomen, but it's thankfully shallow.

Damn, he needs to get a look at whatever blade managed to cut through this many protective layers.

That looks about it though. He frowns, then brings up a hand to the left side of his face. His fingertips come away bloody. A glance into the nearest reflective surface tells him it's just a graze. Bullet. The bleeding's already slowing. Good.

He checks his back, just in case, and then troops back outside to make sure everyone by the bunkers is dead too.

Ten minutes later, they are.

* * *

Owen had really wanted Cipher's plane. He'd taken one look at the interior and known there'd been hidden spaces aplenty built into the walls. The dimensions between the outside and the inside just didn't match otherwise.

Maybe he can keep this one. It's the same design, thoroughly outfitted, and it takes a good half an hour to find all the secret rooms tucked inside.

One of them opens to reveal a familiar woman, strapped to a padded table, unconscious and heavily sedated, attached to an IV, and too gaunt to be within throwing distance of healthy, but still breathing.

Owen smiles. A plan coming seamlessly together. It's one of the best feelings in the world.

* * *

He cleans up. Sort of. He thinks very seriously about just tossing all the bodies except Cipher to the elements, but in the end, he heaves a disgruntled sigh and hefts them - most of them - back onto the plane. A handful simply aren't intact enough to make an actual body.

Then he drives his car up the ramp and makes a call to the pilot that had flown him into Russia, still waiting for him on the private airstrip miles away. He thanks her for her services, wires the money promised, and dismisses her. Once he's refuelled, he can fly himself back to the States.

"Do you do this often?" Seoul-Oh asks idly from where he's lounging in the backseat.

Owen doesn't look up from wrapping some bandages around his torso. Seoul-Oh's been awake for a while, ever since Owen started hauling bodies around, but he's been obligingly quiet. Owen showed his appreciation by not sedating him again.

"Quite," He grunts, rolling up the extra gauze and tossing it aside. He twists around, ignoring the sting across his stomach. "You seem very calm for someone who woke up in a whole different country, in the middle of a murder scene, handcuffed to the back of a car belonging to a veritable stranger who abducted you."

Seoul-Oh shrugs. "It feels pretty familiar actually."

Owen arches an eyebrow, then snorts. "Mark of a memorable life then."

He ducks out of the car, then opens the back and flicks out a knife. He gives Seoul-Oh a pointed look. The man lifts his bound wrists as much as possible in a placating gesture. "I won't do anything. Promise."

Owen hopes so. He'd hate to bring Toretto's lost strays back more bruised than they have to be.

“Come along then. There are a few things I should fill you in on first.”

* * *

"I know her, don't I?" Seoul-Oh asks, more rhetorical than anything as he stares at Yashar's prone form on the pullout bed.

"I should think so," Owen murmurs distractedly as he does one last check of the aircraft. No damage from the battle, there's enough fuel and enough food, and even the storm's died down enough to give them a clean takeoff. Perfect.

"She's supposed to be dead," Seoul-Oh says, more certain this time.

Owen scoffs. "Yes, well, Toretto's little family always seems to have lives to spare."

The luck of seventeen devils, that man. Family, home, prison sentences that never stick, dead loved ones who don't even have the logical sense to stay dead, charisma in spades and loyalty without even trying.

And now Deckard.

Owen turns abruptly for the cockpit. "Strap in. We're taking off."

* * *

He's five minutes from landing in New York when he pulls up God's Eye. He's less than pleased when he finds Deckard right back on top of Toretto's house.

Seriously, he stopped checking for _two days_. Can't the world give him a break?

He scowls, then considers the situation. Then again, Toretto and Hobbs are there too, while the rest are out. He could get this over with with a minimal audience and get Deckard off his back at the same time.

Even Owen can't run forever, so he might as well finally get it over with.

* * *

* * *

Deckard Shaw passed murderous approximately two months ago. It's been almost a year since he'd parted ways with Owen, and he has rarely regretted anything more.

His little brother has never ignored him like this before, never avoided him to the point of running from country to country like his arse was on fire. He'd always answered his phone or responded to a text message, usually almost immediately, but if he couldn't, he'd get back to Deckard within twenty-four hours. There has never been such absolute radio silence between them before.

And normally, maybe Deckard wouldn't care so much. They each have their own lives, gone months - even a few years - without seeing each other before, and that's not even counting their time in prison.

(Prison was still the longest they'd gone without speaking to each other though, if only because Owen had _always answered_ when Deckard called, and vice-versa.)

But he'd also seen the look on Owen's face after Deckard had gotten him out of that prison and Mum - fussing over him - had rambled, "As if I would ever leave one of my sons in a bloody cage. You're okay now, darling. Deckard grumbled about it but I made him come fetch you in the end."

Owen's eyes had met his, and between the realization and the hurt that had followed, quickly hidden but not quick enough, Deckard thinks it was the resignation that had cut the deepest. As if sometime in the past two years, Owen had accepted the fact that his own brother wanted nothing more to do with him and would've abandoned him in that hellhole for the rest of his life if it hadn't been for their mother.

That he could even think that. That he could _believe_ it.

It had frozen Deckard, robbed the words from his mouth, and even when he could speak again, he hadn't been sure what to say. The job had to come first, that was the deal he'd made with Toretto, and he'd thought he would have time after.

He didn't think Owen would disappear into the world, leaving only chaos and absence in his wake to show he was still alive at all. If Deckard hasn't been so worried, he would've been proud. The number of people who can evade him when he's serious about finding them doesn't even take up all the fingers on one hand. As it is, he's still proud. Just furiously so.

But if Owen thinks Deckard's going to give up just because he can't catch him, then he's got another thing coming.

"Shaw," Toretto's gravelly voice comes up behind him. He's smart enough not to stand too close. "You coulda knocked."

And get waylaid by smack talk and demands for an explanation? No thanks. Scaling the building was much easier. They should be glad he'd done them the courtesy of knocking a foot against a window on the way up or they wouldn't even know he was here.

Deckard turns around, leaning back against the rooftop patio. He's not surprised to see Hobbs there too. Elephants, the two of them, tramping up the stairs.

He doesn't let his derision show. Instead, he offers the same _I'm harmless_ civilian smile he'd worn the last time Toretto - having clearly lost his mind - invited him to stay for dinner.

Owen would've laughed at him. Hattie would've slapped him. Hobbs and Toretto's guarded stances ease, just a bit.

"Just borrowing your roof, Toretto," He says lightly. "Be outta your hair soon."

He eyes their respective heads and smirks.

Hobbs rolls his eyes. "Real funny, Baldy. Why do you need the roof?"

Deckard glances down at the phone in his hand. He wonders if Owen is watching him right now.

"I'm lookin' for my brother," He says eventually, smothering a snicker when they both stiffen. "Haven't seen him since Cipher. He's been avoiding me."

"And your brother will suddenly show up if you stand on my roof?" Toretto asks, sounding more than a little incredulous.

Even Deckard has a hard time keeping the pity off his face. Christ, how these people have managed to escape death so many times is beyond him.

"Owen doesn't like it when I hang around you lot," He smirks. "He's a bit protective, that brat."

He doesn't tell them about that evening's barbecue, all those months ago. Doesn't tell them that the only reason he'd left his guns in the car and gone inside in the loosest, most informal family-friendly civvie attire he could get his hands on had been because he'd known Owen had been watching his back. Doesn't tell them he has half a dozen knives, two firearms, and a grenade hidden on himself right now.

Let them think he trusts them, however little. It never hurts to cultivate more goodwill with the people who'd so soundly defeated both him and Owen.

Never let it be said that Deckard Shaw can't work with people he despises when he has to.

"That _brat's_ been busy," Hobbs remarks. "There's been chatter. Latest word is he was in Tokyo and slaughtered an entire tech company before disappearing again."

Yeah, Deckard's heard about that too. Outwardly, he cocks an eyebrow. "Really? What did he steal?"

Hobbs frowns at him.

Deckard snorts. "Owen's a magpie. If he hits a place, it's because he wants something. He doesn't do it for no reason."

"Some might say there's never a reason for killing a bunch of people."

Deckard gives him a flat look that encompasses the sheer hypocrisy of that statement made by and to the people on this roof. Even Toretto snorts at that. Hobbs shrugs and grins a little, conceding the point.

"Dunno," Hobbs continues, shaking his head. "There's not actually any hard proof that it's Shaw either, all the cameras in the area were wiped, and the company - or what's left of it - has been suspiciously tight-lipped about what's been taken or even who did the taking."

_That's my little brother_ , Deckard thinks with great satisfaction. "Then how'd you know it was Owen?"

Hobbs eyes him like he knows exactly what Deckard is thinking. Surprisingly, he doesn't look mad, just vaguely exasperated. "He stopped by a café for a drink. The owner remembered him. The hit took place a block down, most likely on the same day. Pretty big coincidence, huh?"

Deckard does frown at that. "What was he doin' in the café?"

Hobbs shrugs. "He came in with someone, an Asian man, talked for about fifteen minutes, then left."

Something tickles at the back Deckard's mind, a spark of intuition that usually means he's about to come up with a hunch that's going to turn out correct. But before he can press on it, his phone buzzes, piercing the air between them.

He doesn't wait around to pick up. "Owen, I'm gonna wring your neck."

_"Temper, Brother,"_ Owen's voice floats back, amused, but even over the phone, Deckard can hear the forced quality in it. _"Mind telling me what you're doing with Toretto?"_

Both Toretto and Hobbs are close enough to hear both sides of the conversation. Toretto raises his eyebrows.

Deckard scoffs irritably. "Since you don't seem to wanna meet anywhere else, I don't have much of a choice, do I? Now you'll either tell me where you are, and _wait there for me_ , or so help me, when I do eventually catch up to you - and I will, Owen - I'll kick your arse so hard you won't be drivin' another car for the next year."

Hobbs and Toretto exchange glances and do something weird with their eyebrows. Deckard glares at them, but most of his attention remains on the call. If Owen hangs up now…

_"Actually, I can do you one better,"_ Owen says, and the sound of a car door shutting echoes through the phone. _"I'm twenty minutes away. If you could ask Toretto and Hobbs to meet me downstairs, it would be much appreciated."_

Deckard blinks. "You're in New York?"

Over the line, another voice - unfamiliar and distant - says, _"Wait, are you gonna put her in the trunk?"_

_"I could put her in the footwell if you'd prefer, but I rather doubt it,"_ Owen responds pleasantly, and then, back to Deckard this time, _"See you in twenty, Deck."_

The call ends. Deckard has to stop himself from throwing his phone across the roof.

"What's your brother up to now, Deckard?" Hobbs says, arms crossed, suddenly looking a whole lot more alert. Beside him, Toretto's expression's gone stony. His brow is furrowed, and he hasn't stopped staring at Deckard's phone.

Deckard doesn't care about the latter, and he has to bite back the urge to snap at the former for using his name so casually.

"How should I know?" He snarls instead before stalking for the side of the building, internally fuming.

Because even now, Owen had asked for _Toretto_ and _Hobbs_.

Not Deckard.

* * *

Fifteen minutes later, a car turns onto the street, deftly diving into the parking space in front of Toretto's house as it comes to a stop. The driver's door opens, and Owen steps out. He only has time to take off his sunglasses before Deckard smacks him one across the jaw. He pulls it at the last second, but even then, Owen stumbles back, half-laughing as he rubs a hand over the sting. It won't even bruise.

"Guess I deserve that," Owen muses, and Deckard reels in his temper before he actually does start a fistfight right here in front of their two-man audience.

Instead, he looks Owen over, noting the cut on his face and the slight thickness under one sleeve, hinting at bandages around his bicep. He's filled out, healthier than he'd been fresh out of prison, so at least he's been taking care of himself, current injuries aside.

His face is still scarred, and the marks disappear under his collar, no doubt going all the way down.

Deckard has to breathe through the wave of rage that sears through him. Pulling his gun on Toretto - and Hobbs for good measure - probably won't go over well.

Owen blinks at him and has the gall to look puzzled. He can sense Deckard's spike of redirected anger just fine, but apparently, he doesn't know the reason.

God, how the bloody hell had this even happened?

Owen doesn't ask of course, turning a smile on Toretto instead, genial and inviting even with the scars marring the expression now, but his eyes remain ice-cold. "Mr. Toretto. I'm about to make your next ten Christmases."

And before anyone can reply, Owen takes a step back, knocks twice against the tinted window of the back passenger door, and steps away as it swings open.

An Asian man gets out, a bag of snacks in his hands, features mostly calm but eyes darting from one face to the next.

Deckard stares. "…Didn't I kill you?"

Han Seoul-Oh looks at him, confusion clear. "I… maybe? I mean obviously you missed. I thought it was a car accident, before Gabriel found me."

"Gabriel?" Hobbs repeats, and his shock is evident, even as he shoots Owen a sardonic look.

Seoul-Oh glances between them. "Not Gabriel Wash then?"

Deckard snorts. His brother's naming sense has always been lacklustre.

Owen turns his smile on Seoul-Oh. "Technically, Gabriel is my middle name. But you would've known me as Owen Shaw," His smile sharpens. "At no one's service."

Seoul-Oh stares at him. "…Didn't you… drive a tank down a highway?"

Owen arches an eyebrow, then smirks. "Only the once."

"That's once too many," Hobbs interjects, but turns to Toretto instead, nudging him in the side. "Toretto, you okay?"

Toretto hasn't said a word. He stares at Seoul-Oh like he's seen a ghost, which isn't that far off.

Deckard had _missed_. How embarrassing. Actually, going after Toretto's crew had just been one embarrassment after another, and apparently, he hadn't even _partially_ succeeded.

"Dom," Seoul-Oh says abruptly, taking a step towards the man in question. "You're Dom. Right? I- My memory's not been that good, I hit my head in the crash, but I know you."

"You do," Toretto rumbles, voice thick with emotion, and a moment later, they're hugging like the old friends they are.

Deckard grimaces at the awkwardness and looks away, catching Owen's eye instead. He arches an eyebrow. _How'd you know?_

Owen shrugs. _Didn't. Coincidence._

Huh. One hell of a coincidence.

"You found him in Tokyo?" Hobbs says, looking between them.

Owen inclines his head. "He was trying to pick my pocket."

Seoul-Oh pulls back from the hug with a wince. "I thought you weren't gonna bring that up, dude."

Owen smiles at him in a way that's wholly pitying.

"Well, you abducted me and then took me on a road trip from hell," Seoul-Oh mutters. "I think we're even."

"You weren't even conscious for half of it," Owen points out dismissively.

"And whose fault was that?" Seoul-Oh retorts.

"I offered to take you of your own free will first," Owen finishes smugly. "You're the one who said you had to think about it."

Seoul-Oh throws up his hands. "Most people don't make the split-second decision to jump on a plane straight out of the country!"

"We aren't most people," Owen counters derisively, but then he smiles too, and Deckard is surprised to see the faintest edge of fondness in it, the way one might smile at a pet dog that had done something particularly cute.

Hm. Seoul-Oh must be the less annoying type.

"Road trip from hell?" Hobbs cuts in. He's eyeballing the boot of the car.

"Ah, yes," Owen says, looking at Toretto again. "Ten Christmases, Mr. Toretto." He sweeps an arm out to gesture inside the car. "I do believe this one's yours as well. She'll need medical care though."

Even Deckard crowds forward, raising a disbelieving eyebrow at the unconscious woman slumped in the backseat. He's never met her personally, but he's memorized the faces of the entire crew responsible for putting his brother in the hospital.

"Gisele," Toretto breathes out like a benediction. He actually stumbles a step forward, catching himself on the door, unable to take his eyes off her. "How? She fell out of the plane."

"So did I," Owen remarks, and the chill in his voice is unmistakeable. Deckard's fingers itch, but Hobbs is standing right beside him. "You never did find a body. Someone took her before you could."

"Who?" Toretto demands, but even as he asks that, the pieces come together in Deckard's mind.

Hobbs isn't the only one staring at the boot now.

Owen smiles, and this time it's as genuine as it is darkly satisfied. He rounds the side of the car and pops open the boot.

"Is that a dead body?" Hobbs asks.

Deckard rolls his eyes. _Obviously_.

Owen reaches in and unzips the bag just far enough to show the face, bullet hole dead-center of her forehead, glassy-eyed, skin gone waxy, and dried blood pooled at her throat.

"Thorough," Deckard approves.

Owen's smile widens before he turns back to Toretto. "Cipher took her. Probably wanted her as a hostage against you." His smile turns just a touch mocking. "I did tell you - your loyalty to your family makes you vulnerable."

He's stepping away before Toretto can respond, very obviously shutting down that thread. His hand dips into Seoul-Oh's coat pocket and comes back with a business card, which he flips over, produces a pen, and scribbles something down. "A bank account, with enough money to cover the lady's medical bills." He smiles once more, an empty stretch of muscles that could've burned the world down. "Believe me, physiotherapy costs a fortune."

He hands the card back to Seoul-Oh and tucks the pen away, then moves back to the driver's side to retrieve something. The phone he whips at Hobbs almost hits him in the face. Hobbs rolls his eyes before glancing down at the device he'd caught.

"I've marked the location of where Cipher usually lands to refuel her plane," Owen explains, already turning to reach for something else. "Although there isn't much left of the place anymore." His smirk is audible even without seeing his face. "Also the private hangar where I landed her plane just outside New York." He sounds briefly disgruntled. "There's a lot of dead bodies inside so you might want to hurry on that if you don't want the smell sticking around."

He comes back out with a tablet this time, tossing it at Hobbs again. "And a list of Cipher's contacts and allies all around the world. Hackers, mercenaries, financial backers, weapons suppliers - as many as I could find."

"…Including the tech company in Tokyo?" Hobbs asks. He's staring from the tablet to Owen, looking grudgingly impressed.

Owen smirks. "They were kind enough to point me directly at Cipher, so I didn't have to be as careful about tipping her off too early."

Hobbs stares for a moment longer, then snorts. "You know, Shaw, if you actually want it, there isn't an agency in the world that wouldn't hire you on."

Owen immediately sneers, so disdainfully it's as if just hearing the backhanded compliment has sullied him. "No thank you."

Hobbs shrugs, unsurprised. "Anything else you got for us, Santa Claus?"

Owen scoffs, then nods once at Seoul-Oh. "I contacted your workplace in Tokyo. They've granted you a month of paid leave. If you wish to return by the end of the month, it will be waiting for you."

Seoul-Oh squints. "…Why do I get the feeling they didn't have a choice?"

Owen smiles like butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. "Nonsense. I absolutely offered them a choice."

Seoul-Oh looks like he'd married dubious, but then he snorts out a laugh too. "It was a boring job anyway, but I'll take the month of pay before I quit. Thanks."

Something flickers across Owen's face, too fast for even Deckard to catch. He shrugs, looks from Seoul-Oh to the backseat, to the treasure trove in Hobbs' hands to the trunk, then looks directly at Toretto again, perfectly cool and in-control once more. "So then. Dominic Toretto."

There's a funny ringing noise in Deckard's ears. That spark from before, his hunch, blooms in his mind. He thinks of the avoidance, of Owen following him to the Torettos', of seeing him sit down for dinner and what that might've seemed like from Owen's point of view.

He thinks too of Owen travelling from country to country, putting the fear of God in anyone who'd stepped out of line in his absence, and burying those who refused to bow even then, but also sometimes for neither, visiting a seemingly random city and leaving just as quickly, as if following a trail no one but he could see, working towards a goal only he knew.

And Deckard thinks of Seoul-Oh, and Yashar, and _Cipher_ and the majority of her network, if not all - all of them brought to Toretto's doorstep after eleven months of some of Owen's finest work, practically gift-wrapped on a silver platter, and everything finally _clicks_.

"The Shaw family's debts to you are paid, in full," Owen declares, each word clear and measured and strangely formal. His eyes are chips of green ice in his face, gaze never wavering from Toretto's. "Mine, and my brother's. Do you agree?"

Deckard's hands curl into fists.

Toretto looks from Owen to Seoul-Oh, to the car, to Cipher, and then finally his gaze lands on Deckard, and for all that this is a man who wears his whole damn heart on his sleeve like he thinks he can just parade his weaknesses in front of the world and no one will ever take pot-shots at them, in that moment, even Deckard can't quite tell what he's thinking.

Toretto turns back to Owen, and the expression on his face is… light. Like some weight's been removed. He holds out a hand. "Agreed. We're square."

Nobody else could tell, but Owen looks briefly like he'd rather cut off his own hand than shake Toretto's. He doesn't hesitate though, smiling thinly and taking Toretto's hand, shaking firmly and then letting go without any undue haste or contempt.

Then he rocks back on his heels, puts his hands in his pockets, and looks at Deckard, fatalistically expectant.

Right. That's enough.

"What the bloody _fuck_ , Deckard!" Owen snarls, mouth bloodied as he reels back from the blow Deckard delivers, and this time he doesn't get it for free. Deckard jerks back just in time to avoid a vicious roundhouse kick that comes lashing out at his face, and the follow-up kick he deflects with his arm will definitely leave a bruise.

"Hey now-" Hobbs starts.

"Stay outta this, Twinkle Toes, this ain't got nothing to do with you!" "Stay outta this, you government hack, this isn't any of your business!"

The blistering glare Deckard shoots him matches the one Owen delivers perfectly, and neither of them spares Hobbs more than that before they're back to glaring at each other.

"What is _wrong_ with you?" Deckard hisses. "If you were goin' after Cipher, you should've told me. You think I wouldn't have helped?"

Owen sneers, and his eyes glint with all the violence and fury he's been keeping such a tight lid on ever since he'd arrived. "I handled it fine. I had unfinished business with her anyway. I don't need you fighting my battles for me."

"Well that's a new tune; you've never had a problem with it before. But that's not even the point! If you were doing it for this-" Deckard jabs a finger at Toretto, or maybe just the whole rubbish situation in general. "-then you should've told me!"

"I dealt with it, didn't I? I didn't make any mistakes this time-"

" _That's not the point-_ "

"-I was careful-"

"We're family!" Deckard shouts, and this time it's loud enough to bounce down half the street, echoing off the buildings on either side. He and Owen are almost nose-to-nose so he has no trouble catching the slight widening of Owen's eyes or the ripple of a flinch that passes over his face. "And don't give me any of that bollocks about not knowin' what that means. You think I didn't look into the real reason you were dishonourably discharged? You think I don't know you have people in a dozen different agencies worldwide willing and able to offer our sister immunity if she ever needs it? You think I don't know you blackmailed or paid off Mum's entire prison facility so that she'll get anything she asks for and no one would dare lay a finger on her? You think I don't know _you_ just because you don't tell me these things?!"

Owen stares at him. He looks angry enough to kill, shoulders bunched with the stifled desire to wreck and ruin.

Deckard takes a breath, then asks quietly, "Why'd you take the Nightshade job, Owen?"

Owen's features tighten. "I thought it'd be a nice challenge."

"Yeah?" Deckard scoffs and tips his head at the backseat of the car. "That why Cipher knew the moment she could swoop in and nab the girl when no one else was looking? Just so happened to be in the area, was she? You're gonna stand there and tell me she didn't have eyes on you the entire time you were doin' that job for her?" He considers his brother for a moment. "Did she tell you she'd go after me or Hatts or even Mum if you didn't work for her?"

Owen bares his teeth in a twisted facsimile of a smile. "Don't make me out to be some poor misunderstood sod, Deckard. I would've said yes anyway. She would've paid good money."

_So that's a yes_ , Deckard thinks, long-held suspicions confirmed, and he wishes once more that he'd killed Cipher on the plane when he'd had the chance. But at least Owen got her in the end.

"I didn't say you weren't still a greedy idiot with a bloody reckless streak a mile wide," He retorts instead. "But that wasn't the only reason, and you should've called me the moment you realized you were in over your head, no matter what Cipher told you. That's on you." He pauses. "But me going to prison because I underestimated these chuckleheads? That's on me."

"Hey," Hobbs mutters, but it's quiet enough to be ignored.

…God, Deckard can't believe they're doing this in front of these two wankers of all people.

It's Owen who looks away first, and Deckard knows that set of his jaw, that twist of his mouth, that crease of his brow. Owen has always been a stubborn bastard. Then again, they're Shaws. It runs in the family.

Deckard heaves a sigh. "I'm your older brother." And says nothing further, because even with something broken between them, Owen should hear it just fine: _I'm your older brother. You think there would ever be a time when I wouldn't go after the arseholes who hurt you?_

Owen glances back at him, all tired eyes and uncertainty in the press of his lips and the tuck of his chin, the fight gone out of him now.

"Hobbs, you can have the car," Deckard says, gaze still on his brother. "Owen'll ride with me."

Owen frowns. Deckard nods at his own car parked across the street. For a moment, it almost seems like Owen might refuse, might try and walk away, but in the end, he only sighs, retrieves a bag from his car, and doesn't even bother giving Toretto or his friends another look before he turns and lopes off across the street. As far as he's concerned, their business has concluded.

Deckard waits until the passenger door's closed behind him. Then he turns back to Toretto and Hobbs. Seoul-Oh hangs behind them, looking for all the world like he hasn't heard a word of their row and wisely remaining silent as he peers down at his snack bag. No wonder Owen could tolerate him; he actually has manners.

Deckard looks from Toretto to Hobbs and back. He considers his options.

(Recklessness runs in the family too. It's just that usually, Deckard's better at controlling his.)

"Don't ever go after my brother again," He says, softly, simply, straightforwardly. _Or next time, I won't miss_.

Hobbs shrugs. "I'm retired." Like that's supposed to mean anything coming from him. Deckard shoots him a withering look. Hobbs just smiles back winningly. What an arsehole.

It's Toretto who nods. "I meant it. We're square." He pauses. "I wouldn't have done anything even without this."

Deckard stifles a scoff. People are fickle, and driven by emotion, especially when it comes to those like Toretto. Deckard doesn't care so much if they hate _him_ enough to try something; hell, he'd welcome another chance to take care of them properly. But the whole point of making nice with them in the first place was to mitigate some of the animosity they had to still feel for Owen.

Whom Deckard didn't think would ever let go of his pride and fury enough to do the same.

It's rare for him to be so wrong about his brother. He should've known better.

"What's his code?" Toretto asks abruptly.

Deckard frowns at this non-sequitur.

"He mentioned havin' a code," Toretto says vaguely. "Something you taught him. What's his?"

Deckard narrows his eyes. "…That should be obvious by now, if you know I taught him that. It's the same as mine." Because it isn't as if he hasn't well and truly shown his entire hand at this point, and no matter how wild Owen got, the lessons Deckard had taught him had always stuck, taken to heart like they were the only laws he couldn't break. "Our family first. Always."

And the rest of the world can hang.

Toretto stares at him, then snorts like it's the funniest thing he's heard all day. Deckard has to abort the automatic reflex that has him reaching for his gun.

Christ, why is he still here?

He makes an irritated sound at the back of his throat, then turns on his heel to half-duck into the car and… there it is. He fishes out the second tablet and tosses it at Toretto. "Get that back to your hacker girl. Try not to lose it. Again."

God's Eye. Owen wouldn't have left it behind accidentally. Which probably means he's already made a copy of it.

He shuts the driver's door. Done. Time to go.

"Swing by for dinner sometime," Toretto calls after him as he stalks away, still sounding unbearably amused. Beside him, Hobbs chuckles. "You don't even have to knock."

Fuck 'em all. Seriously. Deckard has rarely met a bunch of people so annoying, and he can't even kill them. Well, shouldn't, at least. Unadvisable, for now. They should count themselves lucky he doesn't blow up their bloody house anyway.

He slides behind the wheel of his car, shutting the door behind him and sighing into the blessed silence. He starts the car and pulls away from the curb.

"Time to talk, Little Brother."

* * *

Owen stares out the window as Deckard takes them out of New York, hurtling down empty stretches of road like the entire conversation with Toretto and Hobbs had left him as restless and chafing against some invisible restraint as it had Owen.

"I thought you liked them," Owen says at last, still focused on the blur of scenery rushing past them.

Deckard snorts. " _Like_ them? The people who put you in a coma and both of us in prison?" He takes a turn sharply enough to spin anyone else less skilled straight off the road. "I admit, they aren't the worst people in the world. But _like_ isn't how I would describe it, Owen."

"…They're your kind of people. And you stayed for dinner."

Deckard slams on the breaks, screeching to a halt. It's lucky there's no one else around or they probably would've caused a pileup.

"Listen to me."

Owen suddenly finds a hand on the back of his neck, warm and calloused and familiar, and just firm enough to prompt him to turn around.

"Those people almost killed you," Deckard says, and the look on his face is as fierce as it is furious, but more than either, it's overwhelmingly protective. "They almost killed _me_. They locked us away for three years, because we underestimated them, and because every single one of them has more luck on their side than any three people should reasonably possess in a lifetime." His hand tightens and gives Owen a gentle shake. His eyes bore into Owen's own, intent and unblinking. "I don't give a damn if they consider family as important as we do. They're not one of us. I would set all of New York on fire if I thought that would kill them for good. But they're like cockroaches so I'm sure they'd escape. I could pick them off one by one from rooftops, and this time I wouldn't even give them the courtesy of a warning. But they have friends in very high places who never fail to pop outta the woodwork at just the right time. I could probably get them all, now that I know how they operate, but I can't be _sure_ , and if even one of them escapes, especially if it's Toretto…"

He trails off, glancing away, then back, mouth a grim slash across his face. His gaze rakes over the scars on Owen's face, and he's probably the only one who could do that and not receive a bloody nose in return. "Savin' Toretto's kid was an in I could use. It got us full pardons, got Toretto's crew off our backs, made us look good. But you know as well as I do how easily that can change, so I thought it would be… wiser, to encourage their new opinion of us. They know what we can do too, and now they know we can work with them. So long as they think we're more useful to them free and alive and a call away when they inevitably piss someone else off," Deckard lets go of his neck, only to press fingers to the knot of scars at his temple. "Then you're safe. Sittin' through any number of ridiculous meals with them and pretending I enjoy every minute of it is a negligible price to pay for that."

He finally lets his hand drop, leaning back with a scoff of amusement instead. "Of course, there's not much point to that anymore after what you did. I really should've thought of it myself." He pauses, and then says once more, "You should've called me."

Called when Cipher threatened him. Called when he'd started struggling against Toretto's crew. Called anytime in the past eleven months.

Owen rubs a hand over his face, nails catching over the scars. "I just thought…" What did he think? Some days, he can't even remember anymore. "I thought I could handle Cipher. And Toretto. And…"

"And Mum implied I would've left you in that shithole if she hadn't made me come get you," Deckard finishes, and Owen doesn't flinch, but his hands go white-knuckled in his lap.

Deckard sighs. "That's not what I meant. I just didn't think you'd be willing to work for Toretto, and even if you were, you'd been inactive for three years. I didn't know what condition you'd be in, and infiltratin' Cipher's plane wasn't exactly a walk in the park. But I couldn't use the God's Eye before Cipher stole it; there were too many people watching. So when Toretto made the offer, Cipher for his son, I was planning on doin' the job, kill Cipher for what she'd done to you, and then take the God's Eye so I could find you afterwards." He reaches over and curls a hand around Owen's wrist this time, squeezing until Owen meets his gaze again. "You're my little brother. I'm always gonna come get you, whether you've been an idiot or not."

Owen is silent for a long minute, just breathing, something embarrassingly like relief slowly spreading through him.

Deckard is still watching him, patient as time. Owen clears his throat. "That last bit ruined it."

They stare at each other for a moment. Then Deckard snorts, Owen grins, and the last of the tension between them dissipates.

"You _are_ an idiot," Deckard informs him. "An incurable one. I dunno how you can be the smartest person I've ever met and also the dumbest one at the same time."

"It's a talent," Owen says loftily, and gets a punch in the shoulder for that. Just above the cut in his arm, because of course Deckard noticed. Owen huffs. "You've been hittin' me a lot today. We need to spar so I can return the favour."

Deckard's smile is positively feral. "I'd like to see you try, Little Brother."

They exchange smirks, and then Deckard starts the car again, and this time, they still speed down the road, but it's a calmer ride all around.

"We could still kill them, if you want," Deckard says, steady and coldly practical. "The two of us together - I doubt we'd miss then."

Owen tips his head back, mulling the idea over wistfully, and then sighs and shakes his head. "I've put too much effort into neutralizing them this way already." He pauses. "But if we do become enemies again one day…"

Deckard smiles, and it's one that Owen has seen his fair share of on his own face - dark and vindictive with just a hint of inborn madness.

"They won't stand a chance."


End file.
